


divine and infernal: dead sea date: the world is a stage and the genre is romantic horror comedy

by FlipSpring



Series: Bureaucratic Clusterfuck [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dagon is on the verge of going postal she is Sick of all her colleagues Doin It, Hostile Work Environment, M/M, also sex mention but no actual sex, blatant eavesdropping, crackshipping more like dead serious shipping im not kidding and im not here to play games, ligur’s been somehow resurrected as an angel since armageddidnt because gay rights and I said so, low key gender shit, rated T mostly for Cussin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 15:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21138614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlipSpring/pseuds/FlipSpring
Summary: Somebody in HR has decided to start playing a top 100 romantic bop from twenty years ago. It echoes tinnily over the shitty decrepit sound system. Neither Hastur nor Ligur notice this.~it's after the end of the world and something's not quite right.oh yeah. everything.





	divine and infernal: dead sea date: the world is a stage and the genre is romantic horror comedy

**Author's Note:**

> "hey, flip, do you maybe want to use your writing abilities to give the People what they want?"
> 
> me: "never in 1 million years. I will single-handedly set this mess of a ship sailing. Someone's got to do it."
> 
> "you really don't have to-"
> 
> me: "Someone's. Got. To. Do. It."

Existence is a low-budget nightmare horror film. And that’s how Hastur likes it. That’s how he’s always liked it. Only, since the Armageddon that never was, some rich fuck has decided the shitshow tickles their fancy, and has gone and thrown a whole bunch of money at the production, and furthermore dictated that the genre should be more of a romantic comedy, shouldn’t it?

Hastur hates this turn of events.

The Almostalypse had been great at first — burning down a nunnery (always a laugh), setting the Helhound loose to tear a gory swathe through the crowded basements of Hell on its way out the door (delightful), needling that worthless layabout _Cr-o-wley_ with death threats (good for the spirits), etc.

And then, abruptly, it had gone so very wrong. Crowley’s fault, who else? The snake had never recognized proper authority, had always had insane ideas of his own, had always thought he was _better_ than the rest of them, _smarter, more advanced._ Possibly more _divine,_ ha! Deluded and arrogant and unsettling and absolutely insufferable.

Crowley’s fault. And that was a nice warm sip of piss, of course, but the consolation was that Hastur would finally get to drag Crowley back home to Hell, get to watch him _destroyed,_ but when Hastur and Ligur went up to fetch him, Crowley had been _waiting—_

Ligur, _dissolved—_

_That_ was the exact moment everything had gone from a low-budget nightmare horror film (nice) to a high-budget romantic comedy with horror elements (oh, fuck).

Everything that Hastur felt in the eternity-instant he watched Ligur dissolve, erased from the narrative of existence, unwoven, unmade, melted down— Thousands of years of history, someone he knew and loved better than his own self even if demons weren’t really _supposed_ to know and love each other, but it wasn’t love, it had never been love, if only because it physically could _not_ have been love, watch this, Hastur, _watch_ everything you thought you understood, everything you thought mattered, watch it be annihilated, and now the world you thought you knew is gone, the story has gone off the rails, the world is ending but not the way the it was supposed to end, everything is horrible and nothing makes sense, you’re staring down your own mortality, you, an immortal being who was supposed to meet his end on the Glorious Battlefield against the Divine Forces of Heaven, you, and immortal being who has spent six thousand years toiling thanklessly in a moldy pit, working towards this moment because this moment was supposed to be _worth it,_ but instead you’re watching this, instead you might die like this, like Ligur, at the hands of that snake, that _Serpent of Eden_ who until now had only ever done one single noteworthy thing in all his life (taste this, Eve, it’s the Fruit of Knowledge of Good and Evil, aren’t you curious?) save for that one thing was so fantastic they let him fuck off and do whatever he wanted forever after, and now—

Everything that Hastur felt in the eternity-instant he watched Ligur dissolve: he closed it, like a book. Mostly contained it, those overwhelming thoughts and feelings, so that he was left standing only with a ghost of a shadow of what he ought to be thinking and feeling. So that he stood there, his every atom trembling with fear, with horror, with fury.

“You _killed_ him,” he said.

Hastur had hit rock bottom. And then Crowley whipped out a jackhammer and started _drilling_.

And then, oh, and _then_ all the rest of the bullshit. Whatever. Getting trapped in an answering machine, blah blah blah, escaping the answering machine, getting trapped in a flaming car, discorporated, blah blah blah—

And then the Anticlimax. No end to the story. No catharsis.

Crowley, bathing in Holy Water, immune to the established rules of the universe, because of course. Of course he’s _special._

Life goes on.

What is he supposed to do? What is anybody supposed to do? Nobody knows.

Beelzebub issues busywork, and everybody buckles down and does it, because nothing has changed (everything has changed) and they’re all still scared shitless of zem.

Hastur is moping by the <s>water</s> sludge cooler, sipping mouthfuls of sludge. It’s a day like any other day. Not that anyone can tell if it’s day or night outside. There are no windows.

One thing is different though. Ligur isn’t there.

And then Ligur is there.

It happens between one moment and the next. It takes Hastur a few seconds to realize that something has changed. That Ligur is standing next to him by the <s>water</s> sludge cooler, as though the Apoca-oops had never transpired.

Except.

Ligur’s exactly the same, but different. He’s wearing all the same clothes, but they’ve been mended. They’re _clean._ He’s as dark and dismal as ever, only he’s also _radiant,_ somehow. Hastur rubs his eyes and squints. Ligur’s face, normally wrought in an expression that is something like agony, is clear and calm. He’s missing his chameleon. His jacket _iridesces_ in the non-light of Hell. Hastur’s breath catches, and in his breath he tastes it. Divinity.

Ligur, returned against all logic, as an angel. Unfallen.

They stare at each other for a while. Hastur closes his overwhelming thoughts and feelings, like a book. He mostly succeeds.

“What’re you doing here?” he accuses.

“… Aren’t I supposed to be dead?” Ligur asks.

“Yeah,” says Hastur, “You’re supposed to be dead."

Somebody in HR has decided to start playing a top 100 romantic bop from twenty years ago. It echoes tinnily over the shitty decrepit sound system. Neither Hastur nor Ligur register this.

“You’re a fucking angel again, have you noticed?” Hastur says, finally. He can’t form coherent thoughts. Stating the obvious is all he can handle.

“Oh,” says Ligur, and then touches his head. The cracked, dry, scorched skin of his hands have healed up, all smooth and soft. “Hold on. Where’s my chameleon?”

“Do I look like I know?” Hastur says. His voice is choked up. “Idiot.”

All the demons in the vicinity are pretending not to notice any of this, but are in fact paying more attention than anyone has ever paid attention to anything, ever. God's grand unveiling of _TimeTM_ 2.0 had garnered less interest than this. Legion was standing nearby; they have been repeatedly stapling the same mildewy progress report for the past five minutes. Kunopegos has been picking her nose and staring into space for just as long, and shows no sign of stoping. Her nostril must be picked raw. But this is Hell. She’s endured worse, for much less interesting gossip.

Hastur and Ligur stare at each other for a while.

“I’m going to go submit a triplicate request to Dagon for personal leave,” says Hastur, finally, “And when she declines, I’m going to go sulk in Supply Closet Five for a while.”

“I’ll see you there,” says Ligur.

“Fine,” says Hastur.

“Fine,” says Ligur.

Neither of them move. By now, Kunopegos’ nose is bleeding from over-picking. Legion is still stapling. Their progress report is becoming more staples than paper.

“Now that you’re an angel,” says Hastur, “Are you going back up to Heaven or what?”

“Is that what I’m supposed to do?” Ligur asks.

Says Hastur, still choked, “Still asking me bloody stupid questions that I don’t even know the answers to. So you haven’t actually changed, then?”

“Don’t know,” says Ligur, “This has never happened to me before.”

The music over the loudspeaker is now playing _Somebody To Love,_ by Queen.

Kunopegos punctures an artery in her nose, and starts bleeding out, collapsing to the floor. Nobody pays her any attention.

*

Dagon grants Hastur and Ligur personal leave (in triplicate), when she catches them later in Supply Closet Five.

*

They go to the Dead Sea, which is a popular vacation destination for beleaguered demons that have somehow managed to acquire time off from their Hellish duties.

They cover themselves in mud, and then float way out into the salt-sea, staring up at the sky.

“So what’s actually going on, then?” Ligur asks, “Why am I a bloody _angel?”_

“Shut up,” says Hastur.

“But Ligur doesn’t shut up.

“Does this mean I’m in God’s good graces again?” Ligur asks, “I don’t get it. What are we supposed to do?”

“Didn’t you hear me when I told you to shut up?” says Hastur.

“Yeah, I heard you,” says Ligur. And then goes right on talking. “But here’s what I don’t get. The world didn’t end, right?”

Hastur makes a disgusted noise.

“Right. We’re off-script. Everything is off-script. Or was this what was actually supposed to happen all along?”

“You did change, after all,” says Hastur, disgustedly, “Only an angel would want to talk stupid theology like this.”

Ligur reaches out and grabs Hastur’s hand in the salt-water. His hand is warm. The gesture robs Hastur of words.

“No, angels can’t ask questions,” says Ligur. “Or maybe they _can,_ but they’re too baby-scared to do it. Maybe Crowley—”

Hastur finds his words again. “If you start talking about _Crowley_ I swear I’ll find a way to get you destroyed again. Properly, this time.”

“You wouldn’t,” says Ligur, and his voice is silk-soft.

“I would,” Hastur insists.

Ligur hums, and _radiates_. He’s blinding, sometimes, especially in full sunlight. It’s like he’s some sort of refracting prism, rainbows of visible and invisible wavelengths of light striking out of him.

“Cut that out, it hurts my eyes,” says Hastur.

Ligur cuts it out. And then keeps talking. “Maybe Crowley—” (Hastur groans) “—is right after all, even if he doesn’t know it. Six thousand years he’s been on Earth, mucking about and doing whatever he likes, and _that’s_ why he’s the way he is.”

“No,” says Hastur, “We kicked him out of Hell in the first place because he is the way he is. An insufferable twat.”

“Well, yes. But still,” says Ligur, “Maybe there’s no script, actually. Barring that, maybe we don’t know what the script is supposed to be, so anything we choose to do is the actually the correct thing to do.”

“Ten more seconds of this bullshit and I’m going to throttle you,” says Hastur, “I _mean_ it.”

“Imagine what it might mean though, Hastur. The whole world open to us, as if remade. It’s all new—”

Hastur grabs Ligur by the throat and shoves his head underwater. Ligur thrashes, pops Hastur in the eye with a fist. They struggle, for a bit, but Ligur is too buoyant in the Dead Sea to keep submerged, and also Hastur would never actually hurt him.

Ligur comes up for air, slings and arm around Hastur’s shoulders.

“You’re the same old ornery fart, Hastur,” says Ligur.

“I should hope so. _Somebody_ around here has got to stay sane in this stupid world.”

Ligur kisses him. It’s the same as always, and completely new.

*

Hastur doesn’t notice it at first, but the fabric of reality starts coming apart in subtle little ways.

It’s Ligur traveling casually between Hell and Earth and Heaven. It’s demons taking leaves of absence without even filing the proper paperwork. It’s purposeless assignments passed down from Beelzebub, assignments that aren’t even _trying_ to pretend they’re important. It’s Michael and Gabriel visiting randomly from On High. It’s the <s>water</s> <s>sludge</s> water cooler being fixed, for some reason. It’s Ligur, showing Hastur around the Earth from time to time — deserts and summits and seas. One time, Ligur brings him to the Sun.

“I don’t actually remember what I did before the Fall,” Ligur tells him, as they stand within reach of the solar flares. The heat and radiation of it is infinite, but something in Ligur’s new angelic nature protects them. “But sometimes I really think it had to do with the Sun.”

“It’s too hot,” says Hastur.

“But it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” says Ligur.

He’s not wrong. The sun is beautiful. It’s a life-giving powerhouse of energy, and doesn’t even know it. It’s neutral, neither holy nor profane, and yet its burning brilliance is both divine and infernal. Its brightness is beyond Hastur’s ability to perceive. It would scorch his eyes out, his brains, his body, his very essence. It would probably destroy him in an instant, if it weren’t for Ligur standing at his side.

“I think there must be other Earths out there,” says Ligur, “Other Heavens and Hells.”

“You think too much,” says Hastur, “Take me home before I melt.”

And then Hastur figures out that Ligur has started _consorting_ with Michael.

Michael and Ligur had always had a sort of… thing, despite Michael working Upstairs and Ligur working Downstairs. Perhaps now that reality was dissolving, the rules being reworked, and with Ligur himself now an Angel (sort of), perhaps nowadays anything could happen.

Hastur isn’t really jealous. That’s not really his department. Jealousy was… what’s-her-name’s department. Hanna. Hannya. Whatever. He and Ligur’s relationship is something separate, some kind of ineffable thing that shouldn’t technically exist at all, but does anyway. It certainly can’t be broken by the mere existence of some other weird interpersonal tango.

Still, the discovery of Ligur’s newly-cemented Thing with Michael is what causes Hastur to snap out of the happy daze of Ligur’s resurrection. It’s what causes him to realize, _something is wrong._ The rules that shape the nature of reality are fraying apart.

He does what any rational demon would do, and files a report (in triplicate) to Dagon.

Dagon actually comes down and snarls in his face about it.

This is a surprise. Hastur and Dagon had always had a pretty decent working relationship. (In Hell, this meant that neither party is actively trying to murder the other.) But when Dagon came to see him, waving the report (in triplicate), she veritably bristled with murder. It’s plain to see she’s at the end of her rope. Apparently Hastur has been oblivious to a great deal.

“Don’t you think I _know?”_ Dagon yells, taking up more space than is technically allowed by the physical dimensions of Hastur’s tiny cubicle, “It’s a whole clusterfuck, Hastur, and I’ll _not_ have you come _cryyyying_ to me about how your boyfriend’s got a girlfriend and—”

“Michael isn’t Ligur’s girlfriend,” said Hastur, chancing an interruption. “She’s not a girl.”

Dagon fell silent for a beat, her raging fury popped like a balloon (for the moment). “What.”

“She’s one of those who’s not a girl-gender,” said Hastur, “Not that I really give a shit, but Ligur got pissed at me when I called her his girlfriend. Said she’s some other gender, not constrained by binaries.”

“Well then what the fuck am I _supposed_ to call her?” Dagon demanded.

Hastur shrugged. “I didn’t listen to the rest of what Ligur said about her. Bores me to tears. But—”

Dagon had regained her composure, and her fury. “_Whatever!_ I won’t have you filing me stupid fucking reports about shit I already know. I _know_ you're all fucking each other into oblivion like a bunch of horny hell-rabbits, I _know!_ I sure wish I didn’t know! I sure _wish_ I didn’t have to walk in on some new nightmarish sex scandal every other day! So the next time you file another inane report about who’s fucking who, I’m getting your boyfriend’s precious…” she hesitated, just a second, “_fuckfriend_ Michael to bring down another tub of holy water and I’m personally shoving you into it even if I have to risk my own ass to do so, because if you can’t _tell_, I’ve got hardly anything to live for these days except _praying to a God I don’t believe in_ that the next storage closet I open isn’t full of a fresh new _gang-banging **demon-angel SEX-TORNADO!**”_

And she threw Hastur’s report (triplicate) in his face, and stormed out of his cubicle.

He stared after her. He bent over and gathered up the report (triplicate). It was clear that Dagon hadn’t read past the first page. Because the real reason Hastur had filed it wasn’t because Ligur was fucking Michael. It was because the shape of Hell and Heaven as a whole were coming apart and melting together. Ligur and Michael was only one symptom of it. Ligur _himself_ was only one symptom of it. Was Hastur really the only one who saw that this was happening?

Kunopegos poked her head up over the top of the adjacent cubicle. She was wearing a big plastic cone around her head that obscured most of her face.

“Have you noticed things have been getting weird around here?” she asked, conversationally.

“Shut your mouth, Kunopegos,” said Hastur, “Before I shut it for you.”

“Okey-doke,” said Kunopegos, and popped back down out of sight.

Well, it wasn’t worth it to Hastur to be threatened with Holy Water. He’d done his duty by reporting his observations to Dagon. If Dagon didn’t want to listen, that was her problem.

He stuffed the report in the shredder (the shredder actually did its job on the first pass, miracle of miracles), and wandered off to find Ligur.

Maybe they could go hang around by the <s>water</s> <s>sludge</s> water cooler and then make out in Supply Closet Five again. Nothing made sense anymore. Perhaps it was time he just rolled with it.

**Author's Note:**

> despite everything, you're still here. condolences.


End file.
